Slime

by John Halkin

  ‘Be with you in a minute, Tim!’ Jackson called breezily over his shoulder, and went on discussing the sheaf of papers he held in his hand. Gulliver business, of course. Munich, Stockholm and Copenhagen were to be telexed, assuring them that the agreed dates would be met. ‘As for New York,’ he was saying, ‘they’re probably still eating their breakfast over there, but I’ll call them this afternoon.’

  Keep your visitor waiting, thought Tim sourly. The old technique: he’s only a bloody actor after all. Mustn’t be allowed to get above his station. Yet where would he be if I walked out on him? Now. At this minute.

  His hair was greying at the temples, yet how old could he be? Forty-two? Forty-three?

  His secretary Margaret mothered him unashamedly. Her hair was always perfectly set, jet black, her figure still attractive beneath those rather formal clothes she always wore. Only the backs of her hands betrayed the fact that she must be well over fifty by now.

  ‘Tim!’ Jackson turned away from what he’d been doing and placed an affectionate hand on Tim’s shoulder, propelling him towards the inner sanctum. ‘Sorry to keep you hanging about, old chap, but now we’ve established you are fit and well – fit enough to work, at any rate – I had a few messages of comfort to send off. How is the hand, by the way? Healing nicely?’

  ‘It’s a bloody nuisance, if you want to know. I imagine you’ve already spoken to the quack.’

  ‘Gave me a ring the moment you’d left.’ He settled himself smugly behind his large desk. ‘Oh, do sit down, Tim. I want a word about these jellyfish – though first, if you’ll excuse me, there’s someone else who’d like to be in on this.’ He pressed a key on his intercom. ‘Margaret, give Alan Brewer a tinkle, would you, to say Tim’s arrived?’

  ‘How’s New York?’ Tim asked, remembering what he’d overheard in the outer office. ‘Nibbling?’

  Jackson’s expression changed. Where business was concerned he was like a rattlesnake. ‘Nibbling,’ he confirmed cautiously.

  ‘No sale yet?’

  ‘A chance they may bite.’ His tone was reluctant. ‘Look, this is all very confidential, you understand. Not to be spread around. It’s in all our interests we achieve a breakthrough in the States but I’d be grateful if you’d keep it under your hat for the time being.’

  In all our interests? thought Tim broodily. It could make him internationally famous, certainly. Rich. And kill what little chance there was of putting things right with Sue. Was that what he really wanted?

  ‘Ah – here’s Alan!’ Jackson exclaimed as the door opened. He was obviously relieved to get away from the subject. ‘Alan, do come in, old chap! I don’t think you’ve met Tim, have you? Alan Brewer is in charge of current documentaries. Old friends, Alan and I. Did our initial training course together.’

  The newcomer shook Tim’s hand warmly enough, while at the same time regarding him with dark, cynical eyes. His scuffed grey suit sat on him uneasily; it had probably never really fitted him even when it was new. With it he wore a striped shirt and a nondescript blue tie. He was thin, as though he’d recently recovered from a wasting illness, but his face betrayed a sharp intelligence.

  ‘You tangled with one of these jellyfish, I hear?’

  Tim raised his bandaged hand. ‘As you can see.’

  ‘Know anything about them? It’s a new breed, they tell me. At least, unknown around our coasts. You must have been their first victim, after that boy of course.’

  ‘And Arthur.’

  ‘Our extra,’ Jackson explained briefly. ‘But there’s a complication with him because of his stroke. He’s still not able to speak, they tell me.’

  ‘What’s it all about?’

  ‘It’s clearly a very serious situation.’ Alan’s tone was cool and unemotional. ‘A lot of people are worried about it, particularly in the holiday trade. It could spell disaster for some resorts if a panic sets in before the summer season.’

  ‘An even bigger disaster if they take no notice.’

  ‘That’s what we need to find out – the hard facts. So far we know of half a dozen incidents, all in the past week in different parts of the country. That could be the end of it – just a freak. One of those things.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Tim. He remembered Sue’s despair as she hacked desperately at those wriggling segments of jellyfish on the floor of the little shop. ‘I think this is only the beginning.’

  ‘Evidence?’ Alan demanded crisply.

  ‘Hunch.’

  Alan refused to follow him along that road. ‘Either way,’ he continued, ‘the public have a right to information, and it’s our duty to provide it. But before I detail what we have in mind, perhaps you could go over everything that happened to you, step by step. Fill in a few gaps.’

  Tim shrugged, but raised no objections. He started with that day’s filming in the sandhills when they’d found the dead teenager lying half-submerged in the water and how the sight of the jellyfish squatting over his face had shocked the whole crew. It seemed a lifetime ago. The quarrel with Arthur he omitted but said merely that he’d seen him fall into the harbour and tried to go to his aid. He recounted only the bare facts, ending with a description of how he’d been spending the weekend with his wife when they’d come across another of the killer jellyfish, and how his attempt to keep it as a specimen for Jane’s marine biologist sister had gone so horribly wrong.

  ‘They do more than sting,’ he added as a sober afterthought. ‘They eat into your flesh.’

  ‘You’re not saying they have teeth?’ Jackson protested, his face pale. ‘Whoever heard of jellyfish with teeth?’

  ‘Not teeth. More like –’ How could he put it, Tim wondered. ‘Well, your flesh begins to break up, like it’s being digested. You know, stomach juices, only not in the stomach.’

  ‘Do they have mouths?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  Blinking, Jackson turned towards Alan. ‘What d’you think?’

  ‘They certainly have mouths. I had a library send a couple of books over to the office. “Voracious carnivores”, that’s how one book described them – all jellyfish.’

  ‘Not just this kind?’

  ‘Oh, this is a new breed, or so I’m advised. Of course, that could mean merely that the scientists haven’t met them before. For all we know, they could’ve been sitting there at the bottom of the ocean just waiting for this moment. The point is, we don’t understand what we’re up against, which is why I think we should go ahead.’

  ‘Go ahead with what?’ asked Tim.

  A moment’s silence. With a glance at Alan, Jackson heaved himself up from behind his executive desk and went over to the bookcase whose shelves were seemingly crammed with books. He unlocked the glass door to reveal a varied collection of bottles hidden behind this façade.

  ‘Whisky?’

  He poured a large one for each of them, then gulped down half of his own before answering Tim’s question.

  ‘Alan’s proposing to produce one of his special documentaries,’ he explained. ‘He’d like you to front the programme.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘You’ve experienced these jellyfish at first hand. That’s the first reason.’ Alan counted off the arguments on his fingers. ‘Second, the public know you from Gulliver, so they’re more likely to believe you. Third, that’ll also help us place the programme in other countries in Europe where these jellyfish have been seen – Ireland, France, Holland, Denmark, Norway…’

  Jackson was back at the bookcase, refilling his glass.

  ‘What do you think?’ Tim asked him.

  ‘Well, it’s… er… up to you, of course, whether to accept or not. But don’t forget the impact it could have. It’d bring Gulliver into the real world, with you as the link. Not even the main news has Gulliver’s audience figures, and certainly no ordinary documentary. Just think of that impact.’

  ‘So you approve?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Tim looked from one to the other, uncertain how to react. It
just didn’t feel right. ‘People have been killed by these things,’ he reminded them seriously. ‘Including children. And you want to turn it into showbiz.’

  ‘No, you’re wrong,’ Alan objected. ‘It’ll be a properly researched documentary, good journalism, done responsibly.’

  ‘Then why not a journalist to present it?’

  ‘To be blunt, your name will pull in more viewers. If these jellyfish are a danger, the more people who become aware of it the better. Surely?’

  ‘It’s not just a publicity stunt for Gulliver?’

  ‘Not from my point of view,’ Alan promised him.

  Tim turned back to Jackson. ‘And the schedules? I thought they were all-important.’

  ‘Alan reckons three days’ location work at the most.’ Jackson spelled it all out so confidently, they’d obviously had the whole thing cut and dried between them before bothering to ask him. ‘Just the links. It’ll mean weekend filming, but to save time we’re lending Jacqui to direct those sequences. She came from that department, so they know her work. I had a word with your agent, by the way. He’s agreeable if you are.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Tim hesitated. ‘If there are more deaths…’

  ‘The more necessary the programme becomes,’ Alan declared emphatically. ‘This’ll be no bromide, you can be sure of that.’

  ‘Who has the final say over the content of the programme? I mean, if my name’s on it…’

  ‘We’ll view it together before it goes out, you have my word on that.’

  ‘I don’t want to be associated with… well, cheap sensationalism… and…’

  ‘Nor do I.’ Alan stopped him firmly. ‘We’re agreed on that.’

  Tim still felt reluctant, but could think of no more arguments.

  ‘OK,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll do it. If you think so.’

  12

  ‘You’re not scared, are you?’ Barbara demanded scornfully.

  ‘Me? Scared? I only asked what happens if the tide comes in.’

  ‘It won’t come in.’ What an idiot, she thought. Why were boys always such babies? ‘The tide’s only just going out, silly! Are you coming or aren’t you?’

  ‘’Course I am. And… silly yourself!’

  ‘Huh!’ She tossed back her long brown hair.

  Paul was her cousin, two years younger than herself… just ten, in fact – and staying with them for a few days, which meant she had to look after him. As her cousins went, he wasn’t too bad really, only a bit wet sometimes. He was big for his age too, and that helped. If there was anything Barbara hated, it was baby-sitting; unless it was being stuck with girls all day, which was something else she couldn’t stand.

  ‘’Course, if you’re scared,’ she taunted him once more, and had the pleasure of seeing him flush all over his freckles, ‘you’d better not come. It’s only an old smugglers’ cave anyway.’

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ he repeated stubbornly. ‘What d’you know about smugglers? You’re only a girl! Bet it isn’t really a smugglers’ cave.’

  ‘Well it is,’ she retorted, ‘so there!’

  She led the way along the wet sand which was mirror-smooth and just right for producing sharp, clear footprints. She trod very deliberately, letting each foot take her full weight in turn, then watching as gradually the water seeped through to blur the outline of her toes.

  ‘Don’t walk where I walk, stupid!’ she scolded her cousin impatiently. ‘You’ll spoil the tracks. You should make your own.’

  ‘How far is it?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘Oh, it takes ages to get there. See where those houses finish? Much farther than that.’

  Barbara had known about the cave for as long as she could remember, only her parents had put it strictly out of bounds. It was way beyond the headland where the sandy beach ended and the jagged rocks began. Every so often during the summer months some holidaymaker picnicking there would find himself cut off by the tide which always rushed in unexpectedly on that part of the coast. The lucky ones were rescued, either by helicopter or by ropes lowered down the cliff-face; the unlucky were drowned. So Barbara understood perfectly why her parents forbade her to go there; what they didn’t realise was that she was now old enough to look after herself.

  It was a long walk around the bay to the headland, but Paul was telling her some story he’d seen on TV about smugglers and he got everything mixed up and she told him so, which started a quarrel; by the time they’d finished quarrelling they’d almost reached the rocks.

  ‘Where’s the cave then?’ He stared around contemptuously, but his scowl gave way to a grin. ‘Bet there isn’t one! Not a real one!’

  Barbara didn’t deign to answer. Instead, she began to scramble over the rocks towards the point where the cliff-face appeared to split as though part of it were peeling away. The sea was far out now, hardly more than a silver line curving around the bay, but it had left little pools of clear water in which floated strands of dark, podded seaweed. She paused at the mouth of the fissure, putting her finger to her lips.

  ‘Quiet!’ she whispered, pointing. ‘In there!’

  ‘Call that a cave…!’ Paul began.

  ‘Ssssh!’

  She knew what he meant, but he was wrong. From the outside they could see only what appeared to be dark slit in the cliff, leading nowhere. It was not until you were right inside that the opening into the cave passage became visible. She produced the torch from the pocket of her jeans and led the way. The rock seemed to press close on either side. Paul, behind her, was clutching at her jumper as she moved cautiously forward.

  The passage itself was no more than a short boomerang-shaped vestibule leading into the main cave which stretched deep into the cliffside. She heard Paul gasp as he saw it.

  ‘It’s the smugglers’ cave,’ she breathed at him as quietly as she could. ‘They mustn’t find out we’re here.’

  ‘There aren’t any smugglers!’ he hissed back. ‘You’re making it up.’

  She shook her head and had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes widen with apprehension. ‘They may be here now.’

  High above their heads was an opening into the cliffside, allowing same daylight through, although on her previous visit Barbara had been impressed by how gloomy and mysterious the cave seemed; perhaps it had been a dull day, for it now seemed lighter. It was quieter, too. Last time she’d been alarmed by the squealing and rustling of bats, and by the forlorn crying of a seagull at finding itself trapped inside. But now everything was quiet – well, not quite everything, for in the darkest recesses of the cave she sensed some movement… the faintest whispering sound, hardly more than a breath on the air… just a suggestion, no more…

  With every step she felt more uncertain. The uneven rock walls dripped unceasingly and the strong sea-stench carried other smells with it, even more repugnant. If only, she thought, she hadn’t boasted about seeing the smugglers’ booty. If only she’d kept her mouth shut. Yet she had seen it: a large, waterproof-wrapped packet tucked away on a ledge well above the high water line, far out of her reach. Someone had hidden it there, she was convinced; who else could it be but smugglers?

  This was the spot, wasn’t it? And yes – it was still there! She grasped Paul’s arm to point it out, triumphant that she’d found it again.

  ‘B-Barbara…’ His voice sounded strained; he was tense with fright. ‘B-Barbara… l-look…’

  At first she didn’t understand what he meant. ‘Not that way, silly!’ she exclaimed impatiently.

  But then she turned.

  It was as though someone had suddenly switched on the illuminations. Scattered about the cave on either side were several round, glistening discs, some immersed in the pools of sea-water left behind by the tide, some spread over the rocks, others displayed on the cave floor. They were a pretty shade of pink, although, oddly, the light emanating from them had a yellowy-greenish tinge.

  Curious, she took a step towards the nearest of them, squatting down to examine it more
closely.

  ‘No – don’t touch it!’ Paul’s voice rose to a scream which shocked through her like an electric charge.

  Shaken, she turned on him. ‘Don’t be so stupid!’ she snapped angrily. ‘You little coward!’

  ‘Who’s a coward?’ he shouted back, his face looking strangely sick in that light. ‘All right, touch them – I don’t care! They’re only jellyfish, that’s all!’

  ‘I can see –’ she began. Then the full import of what he was saying sank in. Pink jellyfish – the kind she’d heard her parents talk about. The killers. Instinctively, she moved back. ‘But the whole cave’s full of them.’

  Paul’s anger melted away as rapidly as it had flared up. He came closer to her, shivering; she slipped her arm around him. The two-year age difference between them now seemed terribly important. She was responsible, she knew; she had to take the decisions.

  ‘How are we going to get out?’ he asked, his voice shaking.

  She shook her head, not trusting herself to answer. There were at least twenty jellyfish in the cave; no, more than twenty, all spread between her and the way out. But they couldn’t move – could they? If she and Paul chose their path carefully between the jellyfish…

  Yet why hadn’t she seen them before? Had they been lying there all the time and she hadn’t noticed, perhaps because they hadn’t started to glow like this? But then, why had they suddenly ‘switched on’?

  Or could they move? Perhaps, as she and Paul had penetrated the cave, the jellyfish had deliberately closed in behind them, cutting off their retreat.

  To trap them.

  ‘It’s as if they’re waiting to see what we’re going to do,’ Paul whispered, still pressing close to her. ‘As if they’re hunting us.’

  ‘It’s all right, Paul, we’ll get out,’ she told him soothingly. ‘They won’t bother us if we leave them alone.’